Master Dingo

This week I am watching Dingo, my granddog (a corny but expedient designation; I apologize).  Dingo has been easy because he’s an easy dog, infinitely more chill than Charlie, the little monster of my own making and raison d’etre.

Dingo is a Labradoodle/ Big Bird mix and still a youngster, albeit freakishly oversized. The other day he was walking me around the neighborhood with my niece, Eva. It was late afternoon and we were having a delightfully meandering conversation, making our way back home when Dingo paused to sniff around. I was holding his leash with both hands when he did this coy feint, something between a pounce and a genuflection, to the right.  I remember thinking, awwwwww he wants to play when he suddenly bounded left, launching me onto my neighbor’s lawn.

It was easily the best fall I have ever taken. Eva was impressed. “You looked like a stuntwoman,” she said.  

I don’t remember much between upright to flat-out besides a novel instinctive certainty that the rain-softened green grass would not break but cushion me, along with a microburst of pre-landing gratitude. I felt stirred, rather than shaken. Thanks to Dingo, I have learned the way of the Muppet.